The Other Side of the Counter
by TinyTimcanpy
Summary: In which Dave is a part-time barista and people are stupid. Or, stuff you don't usually hear about in coffeshop AUs. (rated only for language).


Inspired by this post: post/69803043784/endquestionmark-endquestionmark-people-and and this post: post/67376899293/things-i-wish-i-could-say-to-customers-but-cant on tumblr.

* * *

Of the thirty different places you applied to, this one was one of the six that replied and the only one that gave you an interview. It was minimum wage, but the manager worked with your ass-backwards class schedule and the rest of the staff were alright people, you guess. The customers, however, were another story.

########

"I've got the recipe here," one customer says, holding out their smartphone. You squint at the tiny print (goddamn it don't they realise you can't read this with shades on?). You have to scroll quite a bit to read all of the instructions and you almost sigh in resignation.

"Mind if I borrow that for a sec?" You reach out for the phone before turning to the grinder. Another squint at the phone and you realise that the recipe calls for exactly .195 ounces of ground beans. You spend five minutes deliberating with the scales (which only measure two decimal places) before you decide_fuck it _and dump it in.

########

You drum your fingers on the countertop and glance at the long line queuing up behind this particular customer impatiently. This guy apparently works at the local theater and, upon spotting a poster in the back of the shop launched into a monologue about some play you've never seen and which you've already forgotten the name of (_It's a wonderful metaphor for the Capitalist system_). The line is ten people long now and that's when you decide to open your mouth. "That's great and all, but can I have your order?" He pauses, blinks, and then blinks again, before sheepishly ordering an iced latte and slinking away from the counter.

#######

You think the mother who walks in is kinda hot (_shit maybe Rose was right_), But you have to hold back a wince each time the fist of the brat trailing behind her connects with one of the bags of coffee beans lined up in front of the counter.

#########

You've learned at this point to mentally brace yourself any time a pair of young guys in suits walk in. The taller one gives you a strained half-smile before reading a list of twenty different orders. You ring them up and turn to Karkat to enlist his help in preparing the drinks only to reel back because he's been flavoring beans for the past ten minutes and now smells like all of the flavors on your fall menu had a baby out of wedlock. You keep as much of a distance between you as you can for the rest of your shift.

#########

Your eye twitches as you watch some guy unbox one coffee grinder after another, setting them down without reboxing them properly. You start when he asks you if he can see the electric kettle on the top shelf. _Didn't your mom teach you to put things away when you're done with them?_ You pull out the step stool as he starts deliberating about the different brands of grinders.

##########

The days where Karkat mans the register are usually the most interesting ones. He says all the things you wish you could, but he doesn't get fired since he's the only one who can fix the espresso machine that's constantly on the fritz. You watch your aforementioned co-worker grip the register tighter, knuckles turning white. "… a mochaccino, extra-hot, triple-shot, half-skim and half whole milk. Oh, with an extra shot of caramel, double cups, flat top…can you make those shots tall please? And with not so much foam?"

"That's what a mochaccino is," grouses Karkat.

"What, really? Can't you just make a mocha?"

"A cafe mocha, or a mochaccino?"

"Just a mocha!"

"So you mean an espresso shot with milk foam?"

"That's not what I said! Make it like they do at starbucks!"

"This isn't starbucks!"

Sigh. "Fine, just a mochaccino then."

As soon as the customer walks away (no tip), Karkat faceplants onto the counter with a groan.

"Excuse me," The next customer clears his throat. Karkat lifts his head slowly off the counter and grumbles, "Can I take your order?"

"You mean you don't remember?"

"Remember what?," Karkat's scowl deepens.

"My special. I came here yesterday, and the day before that. You should have my order memorized by now."

Karkat squints at him. "Who the fuck are you?"

You duck into the back to suppress your wide grin back into its usual impassive expression before Karkat spots you.

########

Your worst day on the job was probably the day every carton of milk in the fridge under the counter went bad at once. You didn't even realise it until you'd started the next coffee order. You sniff the carton, almost gag, and proceed to go through all of the others in a frenzy, trying to find at least one that was fresh. It quickly turned into a twenty minute search in the back of the shop, and at the end of the day when you had to get rid of the sour cartons, you spilled one on your favourite Chucks.

#######

You're only halfway through your shift and nine people have come up with their own espresso mugs (you think that might be a new record). A girl walks in and stands a distance from the counter, staring at the menu intently with one hand cupping her elbow and the other making a fist underneath her chin. You wait three minutes before she asks, "what's a fluffy angel?"

You turn around and stare at the menu yourself for a beat, then turn back to her and shrug. "I have no idea."

########

It's finals week and you could use a few shots of espresso yourself when you come in to work that morning. You've spilled three drinks already and when your elbow bumps the fourth, you rush to grab it only to fling sixteen ounces of hot coffee on yourself and the machine. Your manager saw the whole thing and he tells you to go home early with a sigh while you stand there like an idiot leaning sideways with coffee in your hair.

#######

You thought the new guy was pretty mellow until the day he was put in charge of the playlist and you had to explain to him why he couldn't fill it with Insane Clown Posse songs (_Are you fucking serious?_).

Later that day the drip machine overflows (again) and the two of you stare at it blankly as "When I'm Clownin'" plays over the intercom.

#######

All the signs are there. You can tell what's coming from a mile away; the enemy of all baristas everywhere; the Difficult Customer™. You turn to take an emergency break but Terezi beats you to it, cackling to herself. You swear revenge as you tromp over to the register.

########

A girl is trying to hit on you but you're distracted by the small child in the arms of his parent in line behind her, who is trying to eat the counter. Gonna have to wipe that again later. You return your attention to her when she leans over the counter, but before you can respond with one of your best Strider Oneliners™, the rush hour is heralded by the entire police department walking in at once. You smile and ring her up instead, but remember to write your number on the side of her frappuccino.

########

Your biggest pet peeve is probably customers who come late. One time a guy came in five minutes before closing time, when you've already swept up the stations and rinsed the pitchers, and orders fifteen pounds of coffee.

Another time you already had closed; turned off the sign and everything. You totally don't jump three feet in the air when you hear a loud banging at the door you just locked. The guy on the other side waves cheerily at you and you're really tempted to just turn around and pretend you didn't see him. Instead you unlock the door and open it just a fraction. "Can I help you?"

"Can I get a cappuccino please?" He shuffles his feet and rubs his hands, as if it was actually really cold outside instead of being 60 degrees (in November. Gotta love Texas weather).

"We're closed." You make a point of glancing at the sign in the window despite the fact that he probably can't see your eyes behind your shades anyway.

"Yeah but you just closed, so can't you just make one really fast?" He says impatiently.

"I'm sorry, we're already closed," You repeat, and quickly shut and relock the door. You make a beeline for the back and shoulder your backpack. You've only got thirty minutes to get to your evening lab and you desperately hope that that guy isn't some kind of psychopath waiting to ambush you as you sneak out through the back door to your car. You definitely don't get paid enough for this.


End file.
